


we've all become lost

by eoghainy



Category: game of thrones
Genre: F/M, M/M, game of thrones drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-08-30 00:10:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8511265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoghainy/pseuds/eoghainy
Summary: i did a lil drabble thing because i'm feeling p angsty over their relationship, lmao.





	1. i sleep in this empty bed, clutching at sheets

Too many times Loras woke up, panting with a combination of fear and grief; patting the linens beside him to feel for the soft skin of Renly. Though whilst he was alive, they never spent too many nights together; Loras always reasoned that it was far too dangerous, someone could always walk in on them, making it so that they would never be able to see each other again. Being their type of ...  _people_  wasn't exactly quite acceptable at this point in time. There could be no public displays of affection; no making of their plans in public; no even speaking together in public! 

But, together, they always managed. 

They would sneak away whenever they got the chance, sex always being on their mind. Fingers would lace, light pressure being applied; sweat-slick bodies sliding together; lips always touching, but not always locked in a desperate, searching kiss. Afterwards, when they had both come to be finished and relaxed in that warm, silky bed, they would idly talk. Loras would talk about one of the upcoming tournaments, and whom he could possibly going up against, whilst Renly would complain about Robert, and how Stannis was just as dull as ever.

Complaining about Robert and Stannis led to Loras wrapping his lean arms around Renly's neck; pulling him down into a heated kiss; a silent way to reassure him that he was better than both of them combined. Everything would be all about sex for a long time, until one of them got called away.

But, they also would meet during the night, too; lust was the last thing on their minds at night. Sometimes, they would have a slow, and loving go at each other, but most of the time it was just cuddling. Loras would often be tucked inside of Renly's grasp, feeling Renly's soft, slim hands map out his abdomen. Lords would let him do it; feeling those fingers touch each lean muscle that ridged underneath his skin. 

Compared to his hands, Loras' own were calloused and rough. Years of holding a sword; being knocked into the dirt; struggling to do each and every task he was given made them tough. His hands told a tale of hardship; a tale of work, and a tale of how he lived his life as a worker, someone who put effort into achieving his own goals. Renly's hands told a tale of a soft life; living like a Lord, hardly having to leave his home. Renly never got down in the dirt; never worked to earn his titles; everything had been handed down to him at birth.

Yes, Loras had been high-born as well, but becoming a Knight took work!

For hours at night, they would lay there, wrapped up in each other and feeling each others skin. Loras would thoroughly enjoy when it came his turn. The feeling of his callouses running across Renly's soft skin made him shiver with a mixture of pleasure and delight; the slight smile that would pull up his lips would make Loras grin in return.

Gods, those were the days. 

When Renly had declared himself King, most of it had been put to a stop. There was no more of that; no more sneaking away, no more shared nights together. Though he was jealous of his sister getting to spend more time with Renly than he did, Loras never raised his voice; he kept quiet, knowing that when this stupid War was over .. everything would go back to normal.

_Normal._

How he had been so wrong!

Images of Renly's death played within Loras' mind every single night. As he slept, he would dream of it; the look on Renly's face as  _something_ was plunged through his chest, the blood that would splurt from his mouth; even the way that he would hit the floor. And every single night, Loras would awaken; gasping in horror and struggling to get his breath. His hands would search across the linens, desperate for the silky skin that belonged to Renly.

And every night, he would find nothing but cold sheets. 


	2. loss is too much to bear

The boat ride home from Dorne was strained, to say in the least.

After he had told his daughter the truth of her parentage, and after she had accepted it with grace; his daughter had dropped. Blood had begun to drip from her nose; from her mouth; down her chin and onto her neck. Her mouth had moved as she struggled to breathe; struggled to  _speak_ , and then her white, long legs couldn't support her any longer. Jaime's hand had wrapped around her waist; supporting her as she slipped to the ground. Her hand had moved to touch his cheek; Myrcella choking upon the blood clotting inside of her throat; soon her struggles slowed to a stop. Her cyan optics began to glass over; looking false inside of her head.

For hours, until someone came looking for him, Jaime had simply sat there; his forehead touching his daughters. She had been so beautiful; so young; so innocent. How  _dare_ they take her out of this world so soon? How  _dare_ they take away her happiness, when that was all she had ever wanted.

Arriving at Kings Landing had been even worse. His twin, as she watched the boat approaching the harbor, had simply known. By the expression on Jaime's face, and the lack of appearance from her daughter, she had  _known_.

But now, Jaime didn't know how he was going to sit through another one of his children's funeral. 

He had asked to be left alone with his daughter's body for a little while, before everyone began crowding inside. Whilst she lay, still as the stone she was laid out on, Jaime crouched and then knelt down; pressing his hands down on the stone and then laying his head down on top of them. A few fingers stretched out, touching the golden blonde curls. The stones that were resting upon her eyes were daunting; sending shivers down his spine.

First his mother.  
Then Joffery.  
Then his father.  
Now, Myrcella?

Tommen had seen Jaime carrying Myrcella's body into the castle, and he had broken down. He and Myrcella had been very close; extraordinarily close. Being split apart had bothered both of them; Tommen, for the first few months whilst Myrcella was gone, wandered around the castle like a lost puppy. He would walk into a room, stare at the place where Myrcella usually would go, and immediately stalk out. Joffrey would tease him for it; saying that if he was going to cry over their sister, that he was simply a weakling. Tommen would never respond; glaring at Joffery with resentment.

Crushing the soft curl in between the pads of his fingertips, Jaime felt his hands begin to shake. It was still hard to believe that this girl was dead; his little  _girl_ was dead; she had died so quickly, that there hadn't been anything he could have done to help her! Again, he had been rendered useless; simply  _watching_ as his second child died.

A surge of anger and grief rose within Jaime; causing his hand to lash out. They knocked the eye-painted stones to the floor; wincing as they clattered. The sound echoed around the room, but did not bring anyone running. When he was finished here, he would put them back on. But, for now—he needed to see  _her_. 

So young; so beautiful she had been. So in love, so happy. But she was dead. Her soul was going to join whatever afterlife existed; she would meet her maker and be at peace. Gods ... why did she those women have to kill her? War was impractical; the Lannister's had many, albeit less than they have had before, allies that would flock to their side if they simply asked! The Martell's were going to have to pay for this one death eventually; killing her had been the worst thing they ever could have done to any of them.

A chaste, tender kiss was pressed to Myrcella's cold forehead. She tasted like death; not like a girl who had just been strolling through the Water Gardens not too long ago; making out with her fiancé in said Gardens; wearing beautiful dresses of yellow and pink colors; smelling like flowers. She didn't deserve this. 

_She didn't deserve to die._


	3. fresh grief.

His knees felt weak. They wobbled as his hand moved to grasp the rail, his fingers curling amongst the metal. Watching as his twin lowered herself onto the Iron Throne was almost sickening. 

Margery Tyrell, dead.  
Loras Tyrell, dead.   
Tommen Baratheon, dead. 

Lowering his head into his hand, feeling the cool metal grace against his forehead, Jaime shuddered. His armor and his lungs felt constricting; he could hardly stand to breathe. Another child lay dead, now a pile of smoldering ashes. He had no body to mourn; no good memory of his remaining son to think of. Tommen had been so unhappy during those final days, especially so with his mother.

“My Lord,” someone tried, but he waved them away with a sharp jerk of his remaining hand. His ribs felt as if they were collapsing upon his lungs, and he closed his eyes tightly, choking on his grief.

 _Breathe_.  _Just breathe._

 _“Do you remember the first time you saw a dead body?” Her_ words sounded inside of his head, sounding sly and haunting. _“Mine was mother._ _I kept wondering if her lips had peeled back from her teeth yet; if her hair had begun to thin; if she had begun to bloat.”_

An image of Myrcella passed through his mind, a pile of charred ash with a few traces of green liquid. An image of Joffery, in the same state, followed. But the image of Tommen? Oh, it differed gravely.

He could see his sons body upon the cobblestones, the side of his skull caved in, blood tricking from his wounds. Tommen’s wide, azure hues would have been open, looking stark against the pool of red that stained his pale skin. His heart broke to picture the way his sons body would appear to be so broken, his limbs twisted and his skin beginning to bruise as blood pooled against the flesh. 

Tears dripped down his cheeks, and they pooled against his waterlines; dripping down his scruffy chin. His sister seemed so . . . Empty. Not just empty; determined, _mad_. 


	4. your nightmare.

He thought he was dreaming. 

After Styr jostled him around, and had thrusted his head down onto the anvil, he had seen _her_. Icy, cerulean hues were focused on his, and anger pierced her glare. She was upset. She was fucking _upset_ , and she had a right to be.

Yet, so did he. 

The dreamiest of smiles flushed across his face, and all the pain from moments before flooded away. The feeling of blood upon his chin and across the lower half of his face was gone. He felt warm all over, simply because she was there, looking at him, and alive. Though he was daunted by the arrow that remained notched, and the way she stiffened with rage and as tears pooled in her eyes, he knew she wouldn’t hurt him. Not like this.

She looked at him, and he could see love glistening in her cool, beautiful gaze. He hoped his own reflected it. His heart pounded in his throat. He wanted to reach for her, and to draw her familiar body against his own, but he held still, aware of how much danger he was still in. Jon wouldn’t go near her until that arrow was lowered. They had to be on level ground; they had to work this out with each other with no weapons involved. Their love needed another chance to pick up where it left off. 

So when her face contorted into a mask of shock, and her upper body jostled forward with the arrow that pierced her heart, he assumed he was dreaming.

This was a dream.  
This was a nightmare.   
This was a _fucking nightmare_. 

No. No. _No_! They hadn’t gotten a chance to repair their lost relationship! He still needed her!

Rushing forward, his limbs feeling like jelly, Jon  wrapped his arms around Ygritte’s waist, pulling her into his lap. He could feel the arrow brushing against his leg, and feel her blood seeping out onto his armor. She was dying. He could feel it deep within his bones. 

That’s when he knew that he wasn’t dreaming. 

This wasn’t a nightmare; it was damn well reality.


	5. beyond borders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did a lil drabble thing because i'm feeling p angsty over their relationship, lmao.

As he sat atop the wall, gaze drawn to the snowflakes streaking steadily towards the ground, a pang of longing pierced him sharper than any sword. His long arms were draped around his knees, and his chin was set on his kneecaps, long hair billowing in the howling wind. He didn’t feel the cold any longer; his time in the Nights Watch and his life in Winterfell had toughened up his body. His entire toros ached from where it had met the sharp edges of many blades, and he though he longed to scratch and fiddle with the wounds, he managed to refrain from doing so. It would not serve anyones best interest with him being incapacitated. 

Every time he came up here, be it morning or night, he was captivated by the beauty of the land that the Free Folk had. Whilst he had been with Ygritte, he had felt the longing she spoke of in his bones. The desperate need to be along the hardly touched land, mingling with races he had never encountered before. As much as Jon hated to admit it, he had thoroughly enjoyed his time spent alongside of Mance; and especially so with her. 

Ygritte had been a perk to being out there. The tension that festered between them once they first met was undeniable; she had been unlike any woman he had ever met before. She was brash; rude; fiery and arrogant—and he had _loved_ her. Now he felt her death so vividly that it scared him. He yearned for her, their time beyond the Wall, and how close they had been. Once upon a time, they could have been happy. 

His gaze was drawn to the spot where he had burned her. Her pyre still stuck out sharply in his mind, and he remembered thinking of how she was truly one with the land now. She had been a Wildling to her bones; there had been no way she would have been able to domesticate her. 

She would have always been like a cat; feral and unruly, never able to settle. He was like a dog; fiercely loyal, determined to stick by their owner, never being one to stray. Fire and ice; opposites to their very cores. But he had loved her to his very core, and there would never be any way he could deny that.


End file.
